


Fever Dream

by faustin



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, First Time, Frottage, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sex Toys, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faustin/pseuds/faustin
Summary: Rocket and the other Guardians pay a visit to New Asgard. Rocket miscalculates, and is too stubborn to back down. It's just that time of year.
Relationships: Rocket Raccoon/Thor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46
Collections: Heat Fic Summer 2020





	Fever Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nununununu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/gifts).



> Happy Heatfic Summer Exchange, Nununununu!

When Rocket wakes up, everything’s too sharp, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t. He lays disoriented, neon lights stabbing at his eyes. Everything smells like metal and oil and recycled air, the lingering traces of last night’s dinner and days-old sweat on his sheets. The light takes shape – the communicator on his desk, blinking. _New message._ He groans and shuts his eyes, tries to curl up on his side. Grunts and uncurls as the enormous pressure between his thighs makes itself known, throbbing painfully. He has to wait until it subsides enough to ease himself upright, leaning back against the wall of his bunk. Takes a deep breath, then eases the sheets down his hips like he doesn’t know what’s waiting under them. His dick’s already poking out of its sheath, swollen and sticky with pre-cum. Rocket’s head thumps against the wall. He sighs.

Right on fucking schedule.

Every six months, _this_ happens to him, whatever ‘this’ is. Gamora says it’s called a ‘heat’ – fair enough, he spends most of it naked and panting, wishing he could tear his fur off while the nuclear reactor inside him threatens to boil over – but mostly Rocket just calls it bullshit. Why he has them, he doesn’t know. Some side-effect of what his Makers did to him (maybe not so accidental as a side-effect, he thinks sometimes when the nights are too long and too cold) but their purpose is a mystery. That’s fine. He doesn’t _want_ to know. He just wants to get it over with.

The light on his comm won’t stop blinking. Rocket huffs out a breath through his nose and eases himself over to the edge of the bed, doing his best not to grunt when he leans over to snag it off the stand. When he clicks it on, Thor’s broad face fills the screen.

“My friend,” his voice rumbles through the speaker, cheeks bunched up around his eyes while he beams. He never really lost the weight, but he carries it with confidence now, beard neatly trimmed and hair braided. He looks good. Better than good, eyes sparkling. “You and your Guardians have a place of honor at our table no matter the season. Everyone is looking forward to hearing of your recent travels. Send me a message when you reach the outer layer and I will come to greet you.” That’s Thor for you – cheesy way of talking, but the sincerity sells it. So does the smile. “See you soon.”

It’s a short message, and not at all sexy, but Thor might as well have said _please fuck me Rocket, yes you, Rocket, specifically,_ the way his dick is reacting. How is it fair, that all he has to do is hear a recording of the guy’s voice and he’s halfway to blowing his load? He clicks the screen off, puts his head in his hands. Breathes deep until the throbbing subsides and he can move again, settling back against the pillows. His balls ache and his head aches and his heart is a dull weight in his chest. _See you soon._

Right. He remembers now. Their trip to New Asgard. The trip he’d planned before he miscalculated how many batches of heat suppressants he had left.

He’s out, and they’re almost there.

\-----------

The thing is, Rocket’s used to taking care of himself when his body betrays him. He’s got plenty of gadgets, both stolen and invented, to take the edge off, and black-market heat suppressants when he can get them (not as often as he wants, but they’re hard to come by). The rest of the crew knows to avoid him when he locks himself in his bunk for days on end, and everyone pretends they don’t hear him. That’s how you survive on a ship this size. You don’t hear shit. But this time, it’s not that simple – sure, he could hide out the whole time they’re docked, but the thought of not seeing Thor makes him feel like he swallowed a bucket of screws. That, and Thor’s not stupid, no matter how clueless he likes to act sometimes. He’ll know something’s up, and this is the last thing Rocket wants is him finding out about this.

Of course, if he can’t think of a solution, Thor’s _definitely_ finding out about this.

“We can still call it off,” Nebula says through the door, raspy voice muffled by layers of steel. “Visit another time.”

“No!” Rocket sucks in a breath, grits his teeth until the wave of nausea wracking him subsides. “No. This shit ain’t derailing the plan.” If it was anyone else, he’d have already yelled at them to get lost, but Nebula knows better than anyone what it’s like to be a prisoner in your own body. She, at least, doesn’t pity him. “I’ve got another couple days before it gets… y’know.” To the point where he can’t even leave the bed. “I’ll just say I got some weird Terran bug or something.”

Nebula’s silence is pointed.

“What?” Rocket snaps. “Look, we all need a damn vacation before we kill each other. Drax almost took Quill’s head off the other day for standing too close.” That, and Quill is stupidly excited about visiting Earth again now that everything has more or less healed from the Thanos bullshit, to the point where Rocket would feel kind of bad about calling it off, but Nebula doesn’t need to know that. “No offense, but some time away from all of you is sounding pretty good right about now.”

“You are being an idiot,” Nebula says, and there’s a shorter pause. “Okay.”

Rocket exhales, scratching at his muzzle. “Okay.”

So that’s that. They’re going to New Asgard, just like they planned. And yeah, maybe Nebula’s right and he is being an idiot, but maybe that’s what Rocket needs right now. To get it over with, instead of prolonging the inevitable. Because honestly, it’s fucking embarrassing sometimes, feeling what he feels – who is he, to miss a god? And no matter how hard he tries to hide it, he still feels exposed every time they’re together. Raw. Like there’s a holo-screen floating over his head, projecting every stupid, aching, mushy, _filthy_ thought he’s ever had about the guy for everyone to see. But, of course, Thor’s too nice to turn him down outright. Assuming he’s even considered that Rocket’s capable of those kinds of feelings. So maybe it’s better that he finds out now, so Rocket can start getting the hell over him.

(If there is a hell, he hopes his Makers are burning in it.)

He spends the last leg of the trip sleeping, hot and uncomfortable no matter how high he turns the fans in his bunk. He usually spends the days leading up to his heat sleeping, trying to conserve energy, but this time it’s welcome. Keeps him from dwelling on how things are going to go once they land. At least, it’s supposed to – his dreams begin to shift into something distinctly sensual and unsettling partway through, and they linger during the brief periods he is awake, sulfur and lightning in his nose and the half-remembered sensation of fingers combing through his fur. Still, he sleeps as much as he can, enough to be conscious and capable of movement when they dock on the outskirts of New Asgard. Way too soon, but he brought this on himself. Nothing he can do now but ride it out.

The path down the mountain is bumpier than he remembers, truck rattling as they all huddle in the bed. Rocket clings to the wheel well and does his best not to hurl. Craggy green cliffs rise on either side of them, sea sprawling grey along the horizon. Salt-brine and fresh, cold air fill his nostrils, gulls pinwheeling over the harbor while they cry. He’d be tempted to shoot them down if he could focus on anything for longer than ten seconds without getting dizzy. He’s been on the ship a long time, and the sudden assault on his senses isn’t helping. The driver drops them off on the bridge, where it converges on the main road, and suddenly Thor is there, clusters of people parting before him as he waves. He’s smiling.

“My friends!” he booms when they get close, and there are greetings exchanged, chatter and laughter that washes over Rocket like the noise from the sea in the distance. He’s too busy trying to stay upright to pay attention. Everything in him screams to lay down on a nice, cool surface and make a nest, get ready for the coming days. He doesn’t realize it’s his turn until Thor’s already folding him into an enormous hug, laughing like he can’t believe they’re really here. “Rabbit! It’s been far too long.”

He smells like grass and sea and sky, traces of fresh sweat around his hairline, and it’s all Rocket can do not to climb him like a tree. He wriggles out of Thor’s grasp. “Easy, Thunder, easy! A guy’s gotta breathe.”

“My apologies, friend.” Thor’s still beaming. He smiles a lot more lately, seems happier – content, even. Not that Rocket would admit to noticing that kind of stuff in a million years, but he’ll take the sappy shit over how things went after Thanos. “How was your journey? Pleasant, I hope.”

“Long,” Nebula says shortly. “Where are we staying?”

“Yeah, not to cut the reunion short, but we could all use a real bed and a shower,” Quill adds, eying Drax. “Some of us more than others, maybe.”

“You all smell terrible,” Drax agrees. “A shower would help.”

“I am _Groot,”_ Groot says sulkily, and Rocket growls. Gamora claps a hand over Quill’s mouth before he can say anything, ignoring his muffled protest.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she says, and Thor chuckles, straightening up. He ruffles Rocket’s ears absently. Rocket kind of wants to bite his hand off. He also doesn’t want it to stop. He swallows a frustrated grunt when Thor’s fingers leave his fur.

“Come! I’ll show you to your quarters.”

The cabins they’re staying in are clustered along the base of the mountain, surrounded by silvery-green pines. New Asgard apparently gets its fair share of tourists. Thor leads them down the path through town to their destination, talking animatedly about that night’s feast and their living arrangements. Rocket tries to look like he’s paying attention. It’s taking everything he has to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and the low rumble of Thor’s voice isn’t helping; it rolls through him like distant thunder. _Waste of a fucking trip,_ he thinks savagely, trying to keep it at bay. He should have known better than to come, but here he is anyway, all because he couldn’t pass up a chance to see Thor’s stupid, perfect face –

“Is everything alright?”

Rocket snaps out of it. The aforementioned face swims in his vision, looking vaguely concerned.

“Just peachy,” he says, too loud. “Why?”

“We’re here.” The heavy wooden door creaks when Thor turns the handle, swinging open into a dim hallway, and Rocket suddenly realizes it’s just the two of them.

“Where’d everyone else go?”

Thor gives him an odd look. “Their cabins. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Rocket bares his teeth in what he hopes passes for a grin, shrugs him off. “Long flight.”

The interior is neat, sparse, with wooden floors and rafters and a big bed in the main room, woven quilts piled on top. There’s other shit too, Rocket assumes, a bathroom and a kitchen unit and the rest, but right now all he cares about is the bed. If he doesn’t get off his feet soon, he’s going to hurt someone. Probably himself. He drops his pack on the woven rug with a thud, makes a show of yawning and stretching that isn’t entirely faked.

“Look, as much as I’d love to sit around and catch up – “

“You wish to rest.” Thor smiles at him. Rocket really fucking wishes he wouldn’t. “Of course, my friend. We will speak again tonight at the feast.”

“Right, yeah. Feast.” Rocket jams his hands into his pockets, looks everywhere but Thor. “Sounds fun.”

“Asgardian celebrations are legendary,” Thor assures him. “And I expect to hear all about that haunted asteroid mining settlement you mentioned in our correspondence. You did promise great tales of triumph.”

“You got it.” Rocket forces another grin. Quill will be happy to tell him all about it – he probably won’t even remember Rocket’s not there, after a drink or three. “Haunted asteroids, escaped bounties, double-crossing Xrillian priests… we got triumph comin’ out the wazoo lately.”

Thor nods, straight-faced, but his good eye twinkles. “That is normally where it comes out.”

After that, there’s not much to say. Thor lingers; he’s clearly got something on his mind, but Rocket’s not in any shape to deal with it. He finally manages to get Thor out of the cabin with a few more half-hearted promises to talk later, and as soon as the door closes behind him, Rocket leans against the cool dark wood, panting. His body feels like it’s starting to catch fire. He makes it halfway to the bedroom before the hinges creak and he swings around to see Nebula letting herself in.

“Unlocked don’t mean it’s an invitation to come inside,” he growls, and she cocks her head, studying him.

“You look terrible.”

“You don’t fucking say.” He leans against the wall, light-headed. “Why are you even here?”

“Thor just left,” she says. “I assume he’s still unaware of your condition.”

“What do you think?”

Nebula nods once, a jerk of her chin. Her black eyes glitter in the dim light streaming through the shutters. “I will tell him you are sick. We will send Groot back with food for you.”

“Not Groot,” Rocket says sharply. He never wants the kid to see him like this if he can help it – it’s bad enough the rest of them know about it. “Just leave a plate or something outside and I’ll grab it.”

“Fine.” Nebula glances around the cabin, then back at Rocket. “I will make sure no one tells him.”

Rocket blinks. “What?”

“About… this.” She gestures in his direction, wrist clicking mechanically. “I will make sure no one says anything to him.”

Rocket realizes, with mounting horror, that Nebula might be his best friend.

\----------

He drifts off into a feverish sleep after jerking himself to an unsatisfying finish, and when he wakes it’s dark, thin stripes of moonlight scattered across the floor. He’s delirious, dick hard and sticky against his fur. His throat’s so dry it hurts. He reaches out instinctively, groping for something to soothe it, and almost knocks the cup off the nightstand in his haste. Someone’s left him water and a napkin-covered plate. It’s cold by now, but smells good enough that his appetite stirs for the first time in what feels like days. By the time he’s done, the aching pressure in his groin has become too much to ignore again, and he rubs out his second orgasm of the night while he stares up at the ceiling, trying not to think about Thor. Earlier flashes through his head when he comes – big arms around him, fresh sweat smell, bright smile – and he groans, arm thrown across his eyes.

He’s so fucked.

This time, sleep comes easier, but not all at once. There’s something nagging at him, but he can’t place it, eyelids leaden and head fuzzy. The plate, he remembers, with one final flicker of clarity – he’d told Nebula to leave it outside. Someone had brought it in, left it for him on the nightstand. It seems important, but he can’t remember why. He curls up on the pillows and lays there, staring at nothing until it pulls him the rest of the way under.

\---------

_Sunlight, warm on his fur, skin hot beneath. Fresh sea-salt air, salt-sweat on his tongue. Hands covering him, cradling him. Like he’s something to be coveted, stolen away. To be treasured._

It always starts like this – the dreams, and then the desire. Rocket lays awake, gasping for air. The wood-slat ceiling spins overhead. This is the part he never gets used to, when it first hits him. Like a fucking blaster cannon full of _want._ Every centimeter of him aches, but it’s a sweet, persistent ache, born of unfiltered need. That’s the other thing he never gets used to, and the thing he hates most. He likes being in control, even when it looks like he’s not – drinking until he blacks out, prison breaks, all familiar circumstances. He knows the drill. This lays him soft and low, desperate for even a crumb of tenderness. He shoves his hips against the mattress, shaking, digging his claws into the sheets. Comes thinking about Thor’s pretty blue eye.

See, Rocket’s gotten pretty good at not thinking about Thor. It ain’t healthy, wanting someone that bad. Not that he’s ever cared about healthy, but this? This shit might kill him if he’s not careful. He’s known that from the start. But when he’s like this, all his soft-underbelly thoughts come crawling up to the surface, all the things he wants most and convinces himself he doesn’t, and right now there’s not room for all the things he wants to do to Thor in his head. They spill out his ears while he writhes on the bed, panting and dragging his fingers through his fur. He needs someone to touch him. He needs _Thor_ to touch him. There’s nothing he can do. Can’t even deny it to himself, not with the pictures flashing through his head at warp speed – little flickers of filth, all jumbled together like his brain can’t pick which one he wants to fixate on first, and every single one lights him up worse than the last. He’s not even sure how it would work, a god and a thing like him, but that seems like a distant concern when every nerve ending in his body is begging for relief.

Some heats are worse than others. Some are over in a couple of days, some can last up to a week. They always come on stronger after he’s been suppressing them for a while. He’d known that. He _knows_ that. He just hadn’t thought –

 _Yeah, you did,_ some nasty little voice whispers in the back of his head. _You want him to find you like this._ It plays out across the back of his eyelids – Thor crawling onto the bed, looming over him, hair falling around his face as he takes Rocket in, looking at him with excitement instead of disgust – and his second orgasm punches a grunt from his lungs, tail thrashing. It feels good, but it’s nowhere near enough. He’d packed a couple of toys to help get him through the next few days, back when he could still think straight, but they’re stuffed down at the bottom of his bag and the thought of moving seems laughable right then. He stares up at the rough-hewn ceiling, sunlight bisecting the beams. His head’s a little clearer, but it’s only a matter of minutes until it comes flooding right back, strong as ever. Another fun feature of his shit-ass body’s screwed-up blueprint: no matter how tired he is, how sore or chafed, the need to be touched, to _fuck_ , to claim someone and have them claim him as theirs right back, never goes away. Not until his heat does. Until then, he gets to lay there uselessly and ache, hands opening and closing around nothing.

In the distance, hinges squeak, wood scraping on wood, and it takes Rocket’s brain a second to assign the noise to an action. Someone’s opening the front door.

Under any other circumstances, the sheer and all-consuming wave of panic that washes over him would have killed even the most insistent erection, but in the suffocating embrace of his heat, it’s dampened quickly to a mild alarm. He struggles into a sitting position, dragging a pillow over to cover his crotch. Hisses a little when the fabric brushes his sensitive flesh. His blaster’s in the nightstand drawer. Whether or not he can reach it before the intruder get to him is another matter entirely.

“Rabbit?” Thor calls, voice muffled from the front room by layers of wood, and this time, the panic that washes over Rocket is so sharp and unexpected that it almost hurts. He stares at the door blankly, and when no words come, heavy footsteps follow. The doorknob rattles. “Rabbit? Are you alright?”

“Don’t come in!” It’s supposed to be a command. It comes out more like a plea. Still, it stalls Thor out temporarily, even if the alarm radiating from the other side of the door is palpable. “Still feeling like shit.”

“Is it what was ailing you last night?” Thor asks. There’s genuine concern in his voice, which isn’t helping the prickles of guilt at war with Rocket’s hormones. This whole situation is beyond fucked up. “We have a doctor here, I can speak with her – “

“No!” The fabric of the pillow gives beneath Rocket’s claws, four jagged tears on either end. “No doctors. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t seem fine,” Thor argues, because he’s a moron with a too-big heart who can’t leave well enough alone sometimes, and before Rocket can even begin to formulate a response, the doorknob turns forcefully, metal squeaking in protest. “If this is serious – “

“You freaking _moron,_ I said don’t –!”

The door hangs open, a gaping mouth. Thor’s body fills the doorway, hand frozen on the knob. Rocket imagines the scene through his eye: furry little freak naked on the bed, hiding his weird little dick with a pillow and panting while the whole room stinks like jizz and sweat. Even that doesn’t kill his boner, not with the pillow pressed against it and his heartbeat pounding in his throat.

“My apologies,” Thor says finally, and he sounds as weird as Rocket feels. “I was concerned, after last night, so I thought it… prudent.” His gaze keeps pinging around the room like a satellite signal before landing on Rocket, over and over, like he wants to look away but can’t help himself. Even from the bed, the bob of his throat is visible when he swallows. “To check on you, I mean.”

“Told you not to come in,” Rocket groans. Pretty coherent, considering most of the blood in his body is currently located below the waist. Thor’s eye on him aren’t helping matters, either – humiliating, sure, but humiliation has nothing on the need that’s got its teeth and claws in him, every instinct in his body screaming to bare himself for his desired mate. “Happens every few months. I got it under control.”

Understanding dawns. Thor takes a step into the room, and his scent washes over Rocket, lingering in his nostrils. Rocket clenches his jaw, but another groan slips out. This time of year turns his sense of smell up to eleven – Thor always smells good, on the rare occasions they get to see one another, but right now he smells incredible. “You’re in heat,” he says.

Rocket bares his teeth because he’s tired of people knowing more about what’s going on with him than he does, but it’s not exactly convincing. Not when he’s clutching the pillow so hard the stuffing’s poking out, trying not to grind against it to relieve some of the pressure between his legs. “Ain’t no prize for winning that guessing game, Thunder.”

“I hear they’re not pleasant to undergo alone,” Thor says softly. “Have you…?”

The question hangs in the air, unfinished. Rocket breathes deep, and another wave of that sea-salt-sunshine scent rolls over him, thick in the air. It makes his head swim.

“Have I what?” he grunts, because there’s no way Thor’s suggesting what it’s starting to sound like he’s suggesting. Maybe that’s a new side-effect of the heats: auditory hallucinations.

“Ever had help,” Thor finishes, after an excruciating pause, and Rocket lets out a hoarse bark of laughter, one arm hugging the pillow protectively.

“Fuck off.”

“Rocket – “

“Seriously, what the fuck do you think?” How screwed up is he, for Thor to ask that and his dick’s still hard as ever? “I told you. It’s under control. Just… get out and let me deal with it.”

Pathetic. Even he can hear the way his voice shakes in the silence. How raw he sounds, how _needy._ Thor licks his lips, chews on the lower one. Rocket wants it between his teeth. Wants to nibble on it and hear if Thor can be needy, too.

“I can go, if you wish.” There is both too much and not enough distance between them and it’s all Rocket can do not to scramble forward to meet him when he takes another step. His eye shimmers, a flash of blue in the sunlight tumbling through the windowpane. “Or,” he says, “I can stay.”

Rocket doesn’t say anything. He can barely breathe.

“Dearest friend,” Thor tells him, and his voice catches on the last syllable, a hairline fracture. “Say the word and I’ll go.” He’s still, so still, in the way that the calm before the storm is still, his big hands splayed at his sides. “Just know you don’t have to face this alone, if you so choose.”

“If this is pity,” Rocket growls, even though his heart’s pounding hard enough to make him dizzy and his hips are already twitching, trembling with the effort of holding still for so long, because he _has_ to, he has to be sure, “I’ll bite your dick off.”

A smile flickers across Thor’s lips for the first time since he opened the door, and in response, he pulls his t-shirt over his head and lets it drop to the floor. He’s so _big_ – Rocket always forgets how big he is – tall and broad, hair wild around his face and shoulders, and Rocket wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything in that moment. “You are my friend,” he says again, completely sincere even though there’s already a bulge between those tree-trunk thighs, tenting his pants. “A fine captain and an even finer warrior. It would be my honor to help you through this.”

Rocket breathes in, then out, once. Moves the pillow. Lets Thor get a good, long look at what he’s agreeing to – the metal screws and staples holding him together, the scars parting his fur, his unsheathed dick curving back towards his belly, slick and red. Dares him to recoil, to take it back.

Thor doesn’t recoil. Instead, when he looks at Rocket again, there’s a spark in his good eye. Something hungry. Nobody’s ever looked at him like that before, and it sends a sweet, shivery ripple down his spine, fear and want and anticipation all tangled up in his chest.

“Magnificent,” Thor murmurs, sounding genuinely pleased, and the last, tenuous thread of Rocket’s self-control snaps in two. He grabs his dick and time starts moving again, a relieved moan crawling out of his throat before he can stop it.

“Whatever,” he pants, after the sheer bliss of touching himself again recedes. “Just shut up and get on the bed.”

Thor’s smile is blinding.

\----------

Rocket has had sixty-something heats, give or take. He’s had zero where someone has touched him during one.

Until now.

When Thor touches him, the rest of the world falls away. The howling void inside him, the one that he can never seem to keep fed, sharpens to a compass point, straining towards the man on top of him. Thor’s balanced on his elbows, big arms forming a cradle around Rocket’s shoulders, careful not to put any weight on him as he leans down and nuzzles into the fur under Rocket’s chin. It’s everything Rocket usually hates – feeling small, being treated like he breaks easy – but as soon as they make contact he melts into the pillows. Like his insides all went liquid at once and are about to spill over onto the bed. He grabs at Thor’s shoulders, his claws leaving tiny pink scratches on bare skin. Thor doesn’t even flinch. He rubs his face against Rocket’s throat, cheek, ear, breath hot where it parts his fur. Kisses the corner of his mouth, the underside and tip of his muzzle, over and over again until Rocket’s panting and shaking, claws digging into Thor’s shoulders while he rocks his hips against empty air, trying to rut against Thor’s stomach.

“C’mon,” he croaks, throat dry, tongue too big for his mouth. “Quit fucking teasing.”

“I’m sorry,” Thor says at once, weirdly sincere, even as he brushes his lips over one of the screws bolted into Rocket’s collarbone. It sends a jolt through him, making him twitch. “Forgive my self-indulgence.”

“Shut up and touch me, then.”

Without warning, Thor rolls them over, taking Rocket with him like he weighs nothing, and then he’s the one laying on the pillows, big hands stilling Rocket’s frustrating squirming. His shoulders are too broad for Rocket’s legs, and so he finds himself perched on Thor’s chest, straddling his neck. His dick is almost touching Thor’s mouth, lips just out of reach, and he’s harder than he’s ever been now, already starting to drip. Thor smiles, tilts his head. The tip of his tongue flicks out, laps a bead of precum from the head of Rocket’s dick. The noise that escapes Rocket’s throat is one he hadn’t known he was capable of making. The fingers on his hips stroke his fur, encouraging.

“This is how I most enjoy being made to shut up,” Thor tells him, voice a low rumble in his chest. It reverberates through Rocket whenever he speaks, which has no business being as hot as it is. “If you care to give it a try, that is.”

Rocket’s dick throbs, and he shudders, clutching at Thor’s wrists for balance. Thor eyes him, curiously delighted.

“How many times?”

It takes Rocket a second to parse what he means. “Two so far,” he mutters, still dizzy.

“Sensitive?”

“What the fuck do you think,” Rocket says, except he doesn’t quite get that far, because Thor pulls him forward and his mouth is hot and wet around Rocket’s dick and the words in his mouth crumble into a moan.

It’s so good it almost hurts. Rocket’s got a couple toys that mimic this kind of thing, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of face-fucking a god. Thor’s tongue is slick and surprisingly delicate, the wet heat enveloping him a furnace; he comes before he even registers that it’s happening, orgasm pulsing out of him while he curls his fists in Thor’s hair, and then it just keeps going. Thor softens, but doesn’t relent. Laps and sucks at Rocket’s dick, slow and easy, letting Rocket thrust into his mouth while he whimpers, eyes screwed shut. It takes a little longer this time, but when Thor lifts his tail, fingertips skimming across his hole, Rocket feels his balls draw up tight and he hisses, fingers tightening in Thor’s hair. Thor pulls back a little, lips suckling at the crown of his dick, and Rocket’s next orgasm leaves him shaking, teeth bared.

He’s too sensitive after that. He curls up on the rumpled sheets, still dazed and twitching, while Thor gets him a fresh cup of water and runs a comforting hand down his back. He doesn’t pay special attention to Rocket’s scars, the metal twisted and bolted along his spine, but he doesn’t shy away from them either. He smells even better now, sweat and sex clinging to his skin, and Rocket can already tell it’s not going to be long before he needs another round.

“Are you alright?”

Rocket doesn’t answer. He twists around, grabs Thor’s face in both hands so their noses are touching. His heart is beating so fast he thinks he might be sick.

“If you leave now, I’ll kill you,” he says, still hoarse, and hopes to hell Thor knows what he’s saying.

Thor’s eyes crinkle at the corners. One big hand splays across Rocket’s stomach, steady, radiating warmth. It feels like a promise.

“I told you,” he says. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

\---------

He naps on and off after that, snatches of dreams flitting uneasily through his consciousness, and when he fully wakes the sky is beginning to darken, the lamp in the corner lit. He’s already aching again, body insistent. Thor is sprawled next to him, one arm flung across the pillows so Rocket can curl into his side. He’s still wearing pants.

“Hey,” Rocket says sleepily. “You’re still wearing pants.”

“Oh.” Thor looks down. It jostles Rocket a little when he chuckles. “I suppose I am.”

Rocket suddenly, desperately needs them gone. He sits up, scooting backwards, not caring that Thor can see his dick is already flushed and hard again, curving between his thighs. “Take ‘em off.”

“Oh?” Thor’s eye gleams.

“You saw mine, now show me yours,” Rocket says. “It’s only fair.”

“As you wish,” Thor says, and damnit if Rocket’s breath doesn’t catch a little when he says it like that. He leans over, nuzzles Rocket’s cheek, kisses the spot just behind his ear. “Whatever you wish.”

Rocket grabs his face, bites at his mouth. It’s not exactly a kiss – he’s not made for that – but Thor doesn’t seem to mind.

He gives in, crawls onto Thor’s chest. Licks his lips and the sweat from his brow, nibbles his ears and nuzzles whatever he can reach, rutting shamelessly against Thor’s sternum while Thor unbuckles his pants and wrestles them open, shoving them down around his thighs. A fresh wave of pheromones drenches the air, and Rocket gasps when it hits his nose, clinging to Thor in the aftermath. It’s more overwhelming than good, pungent in his lungs. He breathes out, trembles. Shifts around so he can take a look.

Thor’s dick is so different from his, bigger and thicker, blushed pink where the head peeks out from its foreskin. He’s already hard, curving back towards his belly, and Rocket kind of can’t believe that he’s the one responsible for it – that something like him could have that effect on anyone, let alone Thor. It’s almost as dizzying as the pheromones. His muzzle isn’t shaped for sucking dick, but damn if his mouth isn’t watering anyway, aching for a taste. He scrambles down the bed to get between those massive thighs, running his hands over hot skin and solid muscle. Coarse hair prickles at his palms. He doesn’t waste any time, dips his head down and licks at the shiny-wet tip of Thor’s dick. Not bad, a little salty, but he doesn’t really give a shit what it tastes like. Not when just a flick of his tongue is enough to make Thor’s teeth dig into his lip, hands spasming on the sheets.

“Fuck,” Rocket whispers, and does it again, licking a wet stripe up the side of his dick. Thor grunts, brow furrowing. His chest flushes a pretty shade of pink, and suddenly Rocket wants to see what else he can make Thor do. He licks his palms and runs them up and down the sides of Thor’s dick, lapping at the tip while he strokes. Can’t get enough of the way his chest rises and falls, panting, as he thrusts into Rocket’s hands, even as he tries to hold still. Rocket cups his balls, teases his tongue beneath the edge of Thor’s foreskin just to hear him moan, again and again. He doesn’t want Thor coming, not yet, but every twitch and throb and gasp only adds to his own arousal, even as it threatens to boil over. Thor’s fingers twist in the sheets, a strangled noise slipping free. Rocket lets up, noses at the crease between his hip and thigh. Breathes him in.

“ _Rocket_ ,” Thor says, half-pleading.

Rocket’s pretty sure he could get used to hearing Thor say his name like that. He straightens up, slots himself between Thor’s legs so he can press their dicks together. He kind of wonders if Thor can even feel anything, he’s so much bigger than Rocket, but judging from the look on Thor’s face, he’s not objecting. He’s flushed, mouth slack, hair messy from where his head has been pressed against the pillows. Rocket never wants to stop looking at him. He rolls his hips, sliding against Thor, skin sticky and wet. Thor meets him with a shallow thrust, grinding into him, and they both grunt. Rocket braces his hands against Thor’s pelvis, angling himself to put more pressure on the base of his dick, and Thor bends his knees, thighs rising on either side of Rocket. Steadying him while they rock against each other, fast and messy, trying to find a rhythm. He can already feel it coiling low in his belly, closer and closer with each clumsy thrust of his hips, and then Thor tips his head back and moans, guttural. Something about that sound – about knowing that he’s making Thor feel good as good as he does – sends a bolt down Rocket’s spine, achingly sweet, and he’s gone, riding it out as he spurts messily all over Thor’s dick.

His legs can’t hold him up after that. He collapses on his ass, mattress springs squeaking, and watches Thor reach down and jerk himself the rest of the way off, hand slick and glistening with Rocket’s come. He arches his back when it hits, striping his belly and chest white, muscles in his thighs and forearm standing out in stark relief. Rocket waits until he’s done before crawling back on top of him, not caring if he gets any on him. His fur’s already a mess. He laps some of it off Thor’s chest, tongue dragging across a still-hard nipple. Thor jerks, inhaling sharply, but lets him.

“You know,” he says, voice raw, good eye trained on Rocket’s face, “all these cabins have rather nice baths.”

“Is that so.” Rocket licks him again, salt and a lingering bitterness on his tongue. Closes his teeth gently around the hard little nub, just to see if it makes Thor squirm. It does. “You asking me to take a bath with you?”

“If you want.”

“If _you_ want,” Rocket presses him, and Thor chuckles, running a hand down Rocket’s back.

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t.”

\----------

They do take the bath eventually, though Rocket’s current state makes it difficult – he’s a lot more interested in Thor’s body than cleaning his own. They stay in until the water gets cold, and then Thor helps him dry off and get back into bed. Part of Rocket wants to hate Thor for it, for treating him like he’s helpless, but he can’t quite manage it. Mainly because Thor doesn’t act like he’s helpless, or look at him with pity, the way so many others have. He just sees that Rocket’s not at full capacity, and picks up the slack.

The room is dark now, moonlight streaming in through the gaps in the shutters. Thor sprawls on the bed, still naked. When he lifts his arm, Rocket plasters himself to Thor’s side, tail looping over his thigh. He can hate himself for showing his weak points later. Right now, all he wants is sleep, and Thor’s heartbeat is a deep and steady rhythm, lulling him under.

\----------

This time, he sleeps better, but still not well. Wakes in the middle of the night to find himself grinding against the sheets, the lingering dream of mouths and hands dissipating before he can remember who they belonged to. He keeps going anyway, getting his hand between his body and the mattress so he can fuck his own fist, biting his forearm to keep from making more noise than he already is. It’s nowhere near as satisfying as earlier, but he needs to get off so bad it doesn’t matter. He’s breathing hard through his nose when the mattress squeaks, dipping when the body next to him shifts, and a muscular arm snakes around his waist, tugging at his hip.

“Let me,” Thor says, voice thick with sleep.

“Don’t have to,” Rocket gasps, but he’s already letting Thor roll him onto his back and pull him close, flush against his chest. His dick twitches in anticipation, tip slick.

“Let me,” Thor says again.

Rocket lets him.

\----------

The thing about heats, Rocket’s learned, is that while they may give him the ability to come multiple times in a row, they do nothing to protect his dick from the side-effects of needing to mate endlessly for days at a time.

“You’d tell me if I hurt you,” Thor says, concern in the line of his mouth.

“Like I’d let you hurt me,” Rocket grumbles, cradling his dick protectively. “It’s fine.” There’s no chafing, but the skin is a little redder than normal, and he can feel soreness on the horizon; he’s going to ache when this is done. He’s still hard. He brushes his palm experimentally against the head, sucking in a sharp breath. “Just sensitive.”

Thor considers for a second. “Do you have any oil?” Rocket blinks at him, momentarily confused. “You know, lubricant. Something besides spit.”

Oh. _Oh._

“Yeah. It’s uh. In my bag.”

Truthfully, he’d forgotten all about the supplies he’d stashed away in his bag. Everything that wasn’t Thor had faded into the background. But he had brought lube, and Thor slicks up his fingers to dripping, coaxing first one inside Rocket, then two. His body is pliant, greedy for anything it’s given. Rocket keeps his eyes shut, but he can _feel_ Thor watching him. He ends up a groaning mess on the bed as Thor finger-fucks him, toes curling and claws snagging on the sheets. Just when he thinks he can’t take anymore, Thor slows down, leans over him. Licks gently at the head of Rocket’s dick, feather-light flicks of his tongue. Rocket comes so hard he almost blacks out for a second, every muscle in his body rigid and mouth hanging open soundlessly. When he finally opens one bleary eye, Thor’s watching him, a soft smile on his stupid, perfect mouth.

“Good?” he asks.

“ _Good_ ,” Rocket croaks.

“Good,” Thor says, and curls his fingers. Rocket’s hips lift clear off the bed. “Let’s try for round two.”

\----------

If the universe was merciful, this would be one of the shorter heats, only a day or two. Unfortunately, the universe is a pitiless crapshack. Rocket’s heat stretches on, into the next day and the next. Thor only leaves his side once, to get more food. The rest of the time, he’s there, holding Rocket, grounding him while he tugs his sore dick, working yet another orgasm out of it. He snacks when he can, coaxes Rocket into eating and drinking. Rocket drinks, eats what he can stomach, but he doesn’t want food. He just wants Thor. It’s kind of terrifying, how little the past two days have done to exhaust that want. Every second Thor’s not touching him is torture. Every second Thor _is_ touching him borders on agony too, but for a different reason – he’s so sensitive that even the feel of the sheets brushing against his dick makes him squirm, and each orgasm takes longer than the last. Worst of all, though, is the incessant, aching _want._ That’s how he can tell he’s coming up on the end of it. There’s always one last burst to get through, and this time it’s especially bad. He can barely think of anything that’s not Thor, or getting off yet again.

“It’s almost over,” Thor reassures him, taking back the empty glass of water. “You’re almost there. Just a little bit longer.”

“Not enough,” Rocket says muzzily, pressing up against him. “Gonna need more.”

They’ve been trying for what feels like hours to get him off again. It could be minutes, though, or days – Rocket’s not sure how the passage of times works anymore. Everything feels so good it’s almost unbearable, but it’s not enough to get him where he needs to go, not when he can barely handle a stroke or two of Thor’s fingers or tongue on his dick. He growls in frustration, pawing at himself, and the mattress dips as Thor swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“Here.” Rocket’s bag is at the foot of the bed, unbuckled and unzipped, all his stuff spilling out across the woven carpet. Thor stoops down and picks it up, sets it on the edge of the bed. “One of these should do the trick, I think.” Rocket lifts his head, sees the array of toys he’d smuggled in scattered across the bedspread. “Which do you want?”

“I don’t give a shit,” he pants. “Just pick one and get back over here.”

Thor takes a moment longer, hands hovering over the toys before he selects one of the bigger dildos – sleek and silver, with buttons along the base. When he clicks one, it buzzes to life, and Thor’s eye lights up.

“This one, then.”

As it turns out, there’s a distinction between using a toy on yourself and having someone else use it on you that Rocket hadn’t considered. Usually he just shoves it between his legs and turns it up to high, hoping it’ll get the job done as fast as it can. Thor starts on the lowest setting, fucking him gently with just the first couple inches. Almost teasing. Rocket’s well past needing any kind of warm-up, but this is different. It simmers deep in his belly, and each thrust is bringing it closer and closer to boiling over. He makes a strangled noise as the toy clicks, and the buzzing ratchets up another notch.

“Beautiful,” Thor says.

At least, that’s what Rocket thinks he says. He can barely hear over the whirring of the toy and the blood pounding in his ears. He writhes against the mattress, limbs taut as the dildo vibrates, Thor pressing it deeper into him with each _push-pull-twist-thrust._ His dick keeps smacking against his stomach and hip, sticking to his fur. He curls his toes, kicks his legs out, and Thor waits for a beat before easing it out of him, until only the head is still inside. A flick of his thumb, and it cranks up to the highest setting as he slides it all the way back in with one smooth motion.

Rocket howls. His orgasm crashes into him like an asteroid wrecking a ship, and then there’s nothing, nothing, nothing but splinters of his consciousness, adrift on the aftershocks. He’s vaguely aware that there’s still something inside him, buzzing away, but he can’t do anything but make wordless pleading noises, pawing at Thor until it stops and eases out of him.

“You’re okay,” Thor says, because Thor’s got him now, holding him tight, anchoring him to the Terran earth before he can float away, back into space. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Rocket can’t say anything, not yet, but he nods, eyes still closed. He’s not okay, not by a long shot, but Thor’s got him. He can trust that much.

\----------

When it’s done, Rocket wakes, and the sun coming through the window doesn’t burn his eyes. He’s exhausted, but it’s a normal kind of exhausted. The bottomless pit of need has receded, leaving only him and Thor, naked on the bed in the pale morning light. He feels like he should cover himself, but what’s the point? Thor’s already seen it all. He’s seen it all, and he’s still here. What that means, Rocket doesn’t know yet. He’s afraid to ask.

“Is it over?”

Rocket glances to his right. Thor’s eyes are still closed, but he’s laying on his back, pillow tucked under his head. He wonders how long Thor’s been awake.

“Yeah,” he says. “Finally.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Thor says, and it sounds so weird and formal and sincere all at once that Rocket can’t help but laugh, scrubbing his hands over his eyes. He’s happy and sad and relieved and he has no idea why.

“Yeah, thanks for making me come my brains out. You’re a real pal.”

“Well, I was hoping after this we might be more than pals,” Thor says, and Rocket swivels his head back so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. Thor’s got that sparkle in his eye again, the one he gets when he’s being kind of a shithead, and he makes a show of shrugging, even as a grin tugs at his mouth. “But if that’s what you want…”

“Shut the actual fuck up,” Rocket says, but he’s already laughing.

He can’t quite kiss Thor, but he does his best, rubbing his muzzle against Thor’s mouth and nibbling at his lips and neck while Thor’s arms fold him in tight, his beard catching against Rocket’s fur. It’s horrifyingly soft, and if Thor ever tells anyone about it, Rocket’s going to push him off a cliff. He buries his face in Thor’s neck.

“I always thought about you,” he says, and it should be terrifying, but it isn’t. Not after everything else. Thor leans back a little, then down, pressing his forehead to Rocket’s.

“I always think of you,” he says, “when you’re gone.”


End file.
